Everything
by Hordepally
Summary: I gave it all up and got a psychotic clown in return. Fair trade. 1-shot.


**A/N: **Just a little 1 shot I started while trying to break my writer's block. First person view (never done one before and wanted to screw around with it) with Samantha as the narrator and a cameo by you know who. For those who don't know Samantha is an OC in my other stories. I reckon this would take place a few months after "Unknown Origin".

**Everything**

* * *

The man on the news says I have an antisocial personality disorder.

Turn the channel and another person, this one a gorgeous dark-skinned lady in a Chanel suit, says I have borderline personality disorder.

All these personality disorders....geez. It's _almost_ a refreshing change when someone else – a harsh looking hawk-nosed fellow in his senior years – says I have Stockholm Syndrome and my alleged drug addiction compounds this, making me more dependent on psychotic clowns. Naturally.

Stockholm Syndrome! That's always a crowd pleaser. It's an easy way for people to wrap their minds around what I've done. "Oh she's brainwashed, that's what it is. He probably beats and tortures her! Maybe even rapes her too! Shoves drugs down her throat! Oh my! Poor thing!" For fuck's sake.

Mike Engel once described me as a "scruffy knockout with a dubious past." I mean...._really_. That makes me sound like a hooker or a day-shift pole dancer. Leave it to Engel to define my looks, grooming and background in one sentence. Talentless hack.

The fact is, they can't figure me out. I look normal, I'm not dressed in a leather bodysuit with my tits hanging out and sporting the mother of all camel toes. I'm not hopping around looking like a mentally disturbed supermodel while doing karate moves and terrorizing people with a samurai sword. I don't giggle girlishly while plotting the demise of Gotham. I don't want to have babies with Jack and live on a darling little horsie ranch in Utah, but people want to believe that. They _have_ to. Because if I'm not any of those things, if I _don't want_ to be any of those things.....then who am I?

Ugh, people and their movie culture expectations. So lame. Nope, I'm just a regular woman with a few addictions and peculiar taste. Oh, and I love Jack beyond what's considered normal and healthy but I guess you've already figured that out. My kind of love is just different than other people's I suppose. It isn't slavish or particularly pure or beautiful but it does run deep.

I try not to take it personally. After all, none of these people really know me, right? Gordon knows me better than any of them and he's not talking. And why should he? I'm not the prize. The prize is the Joker. Jack. Joe. He has too many fucking names. I generally go with Jack.

I haven't seen Jack in a while but it doesn't bother me. We have an understanding and it works for us. He does his thing, I do mine and eventually we meet up. I found out the hard way we can't be around each other all the time. Neither of us is wired for constant human contact with anything but minions.

Speaking of minions....have you met Jake? Right now he's asleep in his room. He used to be Jack's driver, then became my right hand man. Jack went for it because Jake is completely without ambition and devoid of a mean streak. He's also gay, which I'm sure was the main reason Jack is okay with him staying with me. Jake is a great guy, as far as henchmen go. Occasionally he looks at me like he's afraid and confused. Like he's really _seeing_ me and what he sees bothers him. One of these days I might ask him about it.

I should be asleep myself but sometimes it's hard to come by. And when I do crash it's on the couch, my revolver and machete within arm's reach on the floor. I never know when I might need them. When Jack is around I sleep in the bedroom, for obvious reasons. No point in freaking Jake out, right? Poor guy is already traumatized enough by what he's heard through the walls.

The talking heads are through gabbing about me and thankfully move onto something else. The attention is embarrassing but I console myself with the fact that I'm a novelty and they'll lose interest soon enough. Too much happens in Gotham to focus on me.

I shut the tv off and stretch out on the couch, waiting for sleep. As usual, I think about Jack, wondering what he's doing at this particular moment. And yeah, I'll admit it, I miss him. Despite what happened the last time he was home.

That had been a mess and for a moment Jack had scared me. He'd went into a rage, punching out the kitchen window - luckily he was wearing his gloves or he would have needed a DIY stitch job – and putting a couple of bullets through the tv in our bedroom.

I don't even remember what set him off. Something about Dominic I think. I do remember him snarling wildly, eyes blazing.

"_What are you gonna do Sam? Hm? Would you like to call the cops? Do you think it's time I stopped?"_

He'd been taunting me. Of course I couldn't call the cops. Jack has a real bastard's sense of humor sometimes.

I'd been holding Ike – my machete and yes I named it – and staring Jack down as he stalked towards me. I'm sure I answered him but I don't remember what I said. Jake had been in the other room, face tight with fear. I knew he was worried Jack was going to hurt or kill me and it kind of made me feel good. His concern was unneeded though. Jack was blowing off steam and so was I. The fight ended in the bedroom, as usual.

The thing with Jack and I is we hurt each other in the ways we want to be hurt.

How can I explain it? Being naked and vulnerable with a man who has killed untold amounts of people on top of you....you can't imagine how it feels. By all rights he could slaughter me. But he doesn't. I can make him weak, he can punish me for it and we're both happy. It's like the understanding two animals of the same species have for each other. Two rattlesnakes will fight, but they won't kill one another. Hm, that's a scary thought, that maybe I'm like him. It's bad enough I'm just like my father. That makes me wonder....what will I be like a year from now? Two years? Will I still be here, in my tiny house on a dead end street in Blüdhaven or will I be dead or in Arkham Asylum?

Ah well, fuck all this introspection. Drives me crazy. And I always do it before I go to sleep. Don't get me wrong, I have no regrets. This is the life I was meant to lead and Jack is the person I was meant to lead it with. I knew it when we first met all those years ago and I suppose he knew it too.

I finally slip off into sleep when a noise in the house wakes me up. Automatically my hands go to the floor, reaching for my .357 and Ike. A low snicker stops me. Jack is home.

"Welcome back." I mutter, trying to conceal my happiness, and he comes into my sight. He's tall and thin, demonic looking in his purple suit and smeared make-up. Even his thugs, who should be used to it by now, cringe at the sight of him. I think it's an instinctive response to the menace and outright _wrongness_ he exudes. It attracts me, makes me want to get closer. Makes me horny.

God help me. On second thought....no.....just leave me alone.

His eyes sweep over the weapons on the floor, then to me. "Sleeping on the couch again Sam?"

"Yep," I answer and wrinkle my nose at the strange odor coming from him. "What have you been into? You smell like garlic."

"Mustard gas!" he responds brightly and plops down on the edge of the couch.

I open my mouth to ask what in the hell he's doing fooling around with mustard gas, then change my mind.

Jack is quiet for a moment, he looks tired. He still hasn't completely recuperated from being shot.

"Scoot back." he says and lies down on the couch with me. There's hardly any room and the mustard gas smell is a little strong but I don't care. We lay there in comfortable silence, his hand wrapped around my forearm.

I almost tell him I missed him but decide against it. To this day I'm still a little guarded with my feelings with him. A part of me tells me to not get carried away with him, he has limits on his emotions after all, he can't truly love or miss anyone......

"Missed ya." he mumbles and promptly falls asleep.

Have I mentioned how crazy I am about him? Yeah, I am. He is _everything_.

* * *

**A/N: **I don't think 'ol Sam is half as normal as she thinks she is. Naming a machete is kind of a dead giveaway on that one. Oh and spot the line from a Pink Floyd song! I'm always sneaking them in.


End file.
